Dream-Time, (aka 'Body Language')

...no indignation is possible at the moment when there echoes the cry for death of one human being whom other human beings are maltreating. There is only the cold seizure of horror, and that neither speaks nor is spoken. Afterwards comes anger, revolt, but how could one express that cry? What if one could cry it out again, such cold  that of death. Revolt warms us: it brings us back from death. Revolt scrubs out death. Revolt acts. Indignation seeks to speak out.

Combine indignation with "epigastric sensation & fear" and there's nothing one can say which even comes close to the communicative expression of projectile vomit, and it's not the nature or act of vomiting, but that overall experiential upchucking of the soul along with your breakfast cereal. The morality of puke is true, because it is as contagious as a laughing trip. Pure (negative) aesthetic action. A swelling pantomime from the gut can only humiliate and stain any words put before it.

Phenomenological theorising is absurd. Feeling may start in glandular secretions, but how can that discourse help one experience anything but sweat or draining puss, no matter how many words are strung together? Does familiar syntax and 'proper' grammatical form allow for the distinction between nutrient and toxin?

We are only to be interweb voyeurs. The You-tube is just a modern idiot-box facsimile, once called "the boob tube" before the liberation of gender from ego, the diversified, if now two-way television network. The network watches you watch it, but nothing is communicated. "Experience nothing. What you need will be delivered with the proper sacrificial attitude". Experience is a commodity. You must pay. You must work. The world has thus been divided into dreams and virtual reality, both empty. Simulacra. "It's the economy, stupid!"

Or maybe it's only the stupid economy?

I always thought such inversion was what Bataille & crew meant by "decapitation" as well as Artaud's "body without organs". But Nietzsche long before reminded us that the body had already been separated from the head in the persuit of intellectual freedom  the liberation of the spirit. Logic, particularly that economic formula which gives an exchange value to each word, a significatum in equal-value relation to every corresponding sign, the political logic of "best-fitting" categorical membership, is all the language of Mr. Graymatter. Words create him with suitable syntax, grammar and punctuation. You can purchase these at any walmart, if you have a plug. Brain plugins. Soft-ware is the new and improved meat substitute, like Emmet Grogin's "car-wreck meat", consumed in all vicarity  unless in the humanitarian path of a drone bomber.

And you just can't emphasize enough how disgusting the world has become  all this rolling amok of heads without bodies  and no amount of logic will do anything but offer up excuses. There are no words sufficient in themselves. Horror, terror, these words communicate nothing unless the feeling already lives. It should be considered blasphemy to suggest one's shoes fit horribly  unless your own toes have already blackened with necrophoric rot. A terrible expression is when your face melts off and drains down the sink in front of the bathroom mirror.

Of course, there's still some nice shit too!

With polysemy, that wide, poetic region of multiple entendre (mis-labelled "licence"), and given generalised uncertainty (or the mistrust of others' truths/dogma) there can be no theoretical unification. Unification is empirically impossible without bondage or constraint, and therefore, only brings naivite or ingorance of the world beyond those imposed boundaries. This makes grand theory itself, a joke, given that no one has ever witnessed an identity, much less an identical pair of them. The analogue ('away from word', or the parodic 'in word only'), is only a posited expression of similarity, that is, a reminder. One may conclude there is no theory but ecclecticism, and that is the dada of free association.

Word play (or any other sort), obviously, annihilates Master logic. As Huizinga noted, play is not logical. Beneath every forcibly extracted word is a song, rythm and dance. On the other hand, the play of logic, if we are to give it a purpose, is to discredit our traditionally held calculations  so-called "rational customs". This produces laughter and this found-humility should be no source for ego-humiliation. It sucks us out into the world. We are embracively abducted and then spit back to the symphonic accompaniment of WOW! To take the brain seriously is to defeat its purpose: the presentation of sensible alternatives is the proof of possibility itself. Not the path of least resistence but that of most encouragement.

My wife has a phrase, "the mother panic maneuver" which describes that moment the child is in danger and the ego disappears, a moment of pure ecstasis or "coming out of the body" when miraculous feats are performed because all personal history, the record of transactions, has been erased. Men experience this too, but in the day and age of civil society, only in war, when a comrade has fallen. We call them heroes. Civilisation honors sacrifice almost as much as death. The proper investment for any expected return. But courage does not derive from the ego (though it often later glorifies it). Like play, it is not economic, even as courage is always a wager risking everything. It is not logical.

But there is another kind of ego di(sin)vestment. Like the first steps taken by your child. I remember it seemed like only a few weeks prior came the first meaningful word: not "mom" but "dada". First steps off the hobby horse. They were coming toward, to, at me, with a big mutual grin. I don't remember the day before or after. But I recall the color of the sky. The green of the grass. The park. The town. The slight breeze which did not chill the skin. It was a heroic moment no snapshot or super-eight film (predecessor to video) could capture. In fact, there was no recording device at all. Just this miraculous time machine stuck at 3:15 pm. It is beyond pictures and words. Only an Emily Dickinson sentiment could approach it: "I know it is poetry when it feels like the top of my head has come off". Chemists have a drug for this linguistic impairment.

Or authentic theatre, where the actor's ego is so possessed by the character, we see even the hairs on the back of the neck stand at attention. We see it because our own is doing the same. If we have ever been in a comparable situation, our whole body might resonate with the moment. Mass hysteria? Under a spell? Spirit possession? Sympathetic magic? Heavens forbid, not empathetic communication! They have a pill for this too. One to induce it is criminal, to prevent it, sublime.

Moments of ecstasis cannot be "objectively" shared; they are the sharing, the pandemic moment the ego dissolves or is pushed to the background. They are not logical because the gray-matter is unconscious (or busy elsewhere). It's not an out-of-body experience, but the body coming out! Dream-time.

Therefore, no words. Oh, the arrogance of meaning! (Basinski, Museless Now Fay Wray) The music, inflection, rythm are meaningful enough. Not silence, but an elaborated whole-body expression. Such are not even your own moments. Without the ego in the foreground, there is no property. Without property, there is no war. No power on earth, as they say, and certainly no kingdom. Without the stuff of power & war for it (warfare is always a marketplace), there is no state. They tell us the brain is the central executive administrator of the body. If we have a problem with that, we are at war with ourselves. Never fear, a pharmacist is near!

"The State is the exercise of political power. One cannot imagine power without the State, nor the State without power."

 Pierre Clastres

Ex-stasis is the proverbial 'blown mind'. If there are any facts, in fact, it is love. If love is also an epigastric sensation, its expression might be a bow-well movement, or beaux el  'a good turn'  but any movement will suffice to end stasis. The moment of 'truth' must be a subjective moment, but only when the subject and object disappear, merge, conflate, ecspell. The distributive moment of Callois' "Psychaesthenia" or Freud's "oceanic feeling" or Peirce's "abduction" or the medieval dropout's "gnosis". A Gnoetic moment, where "moment" should be securely placed in parentheses (lest we experience an epileptic fit like the over-enthusiastic monk in Beowulf) because time itself is irrelevant. It is wide-awake dream-time.

The interpretation of dreams, the analysis, the work, only serve to destroy them. Dreams are meant, so to speak, to live. Leave nightmares for dissection on the autopsy table. Historical analysis so destroys all contextual or living relations (being itself the re-dramatisation of war) that, by comparison, myth time, mythic narative, the recollection of all dream-time as pure synchronicity, presents the only believable reality. As Mark Twain said, "Soap & education are not as sudden as a massacre, but they are more deadly in the long run." And that is the poetry of it  the truth which revolts!

For you can tie me up if you wish,
but there is nothing more useless than an organ.

When you will have made him a body without organs,
then you will have delivered him from all his automatic reactions
and restored him to his true freedom.

Then you will teach him again to dance wrong side out
as in the frenzy of dance halls